CUCUMBER TOMATO ORANGE
it takes so much doing and arranging
organizing and following thru
as if it were all a big examination
wondering what you selected along your suspicious way
a dainty fingertip like a tulip of sunshine
to amass all of the principles
which were left out in the rain overnight
collecting alternative entries
selections for judgment
submissions to a pool of cataclysm with everything in it
warped & now feeble
splintering under the pressure
weightbearing geniuses
mules of a psychic canyon
camels in a teeming desert finally reaching port
unloading their satchels & coming to rest
on their silent knees
cucumber tomato orange
something is rolling over and over
it’s not getting any faster or any slower
it just tumbles like laundry
and I can finally admit what was wrong with the world
in unrelenting hurdles and a comical series of misadventure
a true whimsy
uncontained the ancient spoils
of a dead wonder
artifacts unto sensation under a sky made of jellyfish & debris
I can’t take my eyes off the surprise that you spoiled
you squeal like a teapot at all the unexpected encumbrances while I dance on my hands and do spins on my head…
SKINNY DIPPING
as if a stolen physical
compendium photograph
overshadow erases
a sense of wrongdoing
in a literal fashion
like a chain of resistance
or a frail combination
of risqué conversations
sitting hard at the table
with the platter of welfare
in an icebox was splendid
forty tumors attribute
to a worsening outcome
all the steps in between
something bold and its brethren
so, ashamed of acquaintance
every likening subject
fit for dope exploration
like a stolen vocation
in a temperate snowstorm
could you own a gun?
when the crew jumps ship
and the sun falls into the ocean
and a gigantic sizzling
and it peters out
but the water is so warm
and everyone is in the water, skinny dipping
HUMAN BOARD GAME
born in an apple blossom
an activism influenced by amazing revelations
to warp and redistrict
for untold instruction
and soggy blueprints
of a dedicated memorial
to a system of ridicule
cast in shouldered mortar
chained in distress
but powerful in custody
like a cornered oasis
on a dim observation
raised to utmost awareness
by a flagpole Picasso
and a wild ranger bounding
out of range of the signal
A FAVOR
as a favor to the bull-headed and fiercely opulent sun that snatches me every morning from some dull wonderland of faithful imaginations,
as well as to its insidious minions of wellbeing,
I brought bundled in an arm of pines my delightful necessity around which to lock arms and chant discretely some half-remembered version of a summoning which works in reverse and sucks the light out of the sky.
what a surprise it was.
I mean for all, even for me who initiated the whole thing.
a purple toad eyes my gift slyly.
what was it that you wanted?
the gift of freedom is reserved for a chosen plenty.
wipe rings from the face of a volcanic sculpture while riding a parakeet above the mountaintops fast on your way to dealing unsteady or crashing like waves against sheet metal.
I can’t help but hear the seeming loud over what’s happening.
are you really saying what you mean?
how could you?
an excess of accountability has led us to the opening entrance of this tunnel underground.
who’s the most afraid?
others taking turns denying it to themselves.
it expects one like me to do most of the hard work here.
also, it’s too dark and I can’t see anything.
so by waiting then for kings and rutabagas to sprout inconsistently in their long pants,
we have accidentally unlocked the long and dangerous dinner table with which to confront all the demons of christmas past.
in a while maybe it will settle into some grand gesture at the universe’s ability to keep it all in order like a dustpan whose floor is my twenties and whose trashcan is eternal infamy.
Colin Ferguson 